Director's Chair
by Dee Arris
Summary: A new guest, bored with his celebrity life and the regrets of his past, is happy to just disappear into the night, a self-damning journey that brings him to a purgatorial hotel where logic and virtue are little more than fiction...
1. Night 1: Checking In

"**DIRECTOR'S CHAIR"**

Written by Scott D. Harris

**Night 1 / Chapter 1: **"**Checking In"**

He liked the rain. There was something about this natural race to soak the Earth that energised his thought processes, and after all those hours surrounded by countless people in harsh perfume and glistening clothes, he appreciated the time alone. Quentin had offered him a ride home, but he declined because he was too tired for more socialising. He also liked trains, especially at this late hour because so few people used them. He could sit on them for hours and hours and watch the landscape pass by, illuminated by the moon above. Wondrous. It made him feel so relaxed. Not tonight though, something felt missing. He took the award out of his suitcase and set it on the little table affixed to the wall. He had been pleased as punch to win the BAFTA for his latest production, which he had both written _and_ directed. It was only his second film, the first had done well, but this had outdone it by miles. He had been the only one of his class to make it this far. As the four years passed between entering university and graduating with his Master of Arts, he had been the first raindrop, the one to outrace the crowd and reach the goal, break apart and spread his influence. There was so much enjoyment in the learning and the growing, but now two films down the line, something felt wrong, left of centre. One reviewer had called him a, "maker of evil films." Hilarious, those critics, one rung above tiny parasites on the evolutionary ladder with the smug sense of superiority that made them fit perfectly into the jigsaw puzzle that was showbiz. Only a few were really knowledgeable to appreciate the hard work that went into producing a work of art…why did he feel agitated? He distinctly remembered taking that one for a compliment. He cleaned his glasses, another habit he had developed during the nerve-wracking production of his first. He then rested his chin on his crossed arms and stared into the trophy's eyes.

How long had he been asleep? He checked for his wristwatch, then remembered he had left it to be repaired before he set out for the award show. Well, he did not recognise the scenery outside the window, so the only sensible conclusion would be to get off and grab the first train to go in the opposite direction. Not that he minded too much. The train pulled to a stop and he quickly stowed the BAFTA back in his briefcase. The platform was devoid of life and the only sounds were the moaning wind and the hum of the train's systems. Looking around, he saw that there was no station on the opposite side of the tracks. Whoever heard of a one-way train? Ridiculous. He sighed and turned to the station building itself. It was dark now. There had to be civilisation near. He would find shelter. Frankly he did not care if he drifted about forever. Famous people had been known to disappear off the face of the planet before, why not join them? Maybe they never turned up because wherever they went was so much better. The walk felt like forever. There was just one grey dirt road leading straight from the station and through a dark, dead wasteland. The trees were black and reached up to claw at the Madman's Moon like dying hands riddled with arthritis. The grass was fragile and _crack-a-racked_ under his shoes. Damn it, where on Earth was he? Even the station and the tracks had vanished over the horizon, and he was feeling weary. So he sat down at the side of the road to contemplate his situation. As if on cue, there was the _honk! honk!_ of an approaching car. He looked up to see a bright yellow cab rumble up beside him. It was blocky in build and utterly unlike any cab he had ever seen before. The license plate read, _'Do you remember me?'_

"'Ey, buddy!" a nasally voice chirped from inside the cab, "ya need a ride?"

Did he? Well he had nothing else to do.

"Yeah, all right," he stood up and reached to open the door of the cab, but it popped open of its own volition. He paused, then thought nothing of it and climbed in. There was a screen separating the front and back seats with a small hatch over a tray for both communication and payment.

"Where ya goin'?" asked the nasally voice.

"Are there any hotels around here?" he replied.

"Sure, I know a good one. Nobody ever complains," said the voice. "'Ey, I seen you before. You famous, buddy?"

"Sort of," he muttered. The voice of the driver _hmm'd_.

"You a game show host?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Okay, uh…yer a pro figure skater, right?"

"Ha!" he snorted. "No."

"…_Traeh si tuohtiw nam a rey."_

"W-what?"

"Nothin', buddy. Okay, here we are." He reached for his wallet, but the voice interrupted, "Don't worry 'bout it, this one's on me."

"Uh…thank you."

"Don't mention it, buddy."

He picked up his briefcase and climbed out of the cab. As it drove away, honking its horn, he turned around, and there it stood. A two-storey building of brown brick, with a roof of black tiles, and above the heavy wooden double-doors was the establishment's name in foot-high gold letters.

**GREGORY HOUSE**

The doors swung apart as if to welcome him and a thin blanket of smoke poured across the stone steps and out into the night, washing over his feet. The entry looked like the hungry mouth of a cat looming over its prey. He stiffened his resolve, and walked inside.

The lobby was at least warmer than the biting, breezeless cold outside. The ankle-deep purple carpet and pale green walls were in need of a clean, but the mahogany counter was well polished. The lamp in the ceiling was dim, casting a weak, flickering glow about the room. He set down his briefcase and tapped the bell on the counter. After a couple more tries of this, an aged voice spoke.

"Good evening, my friend," it said, "do you need a room for the night?"

"Oh!" he twirled round to see the owner of the voice. It was a mouse as tall as him, with wispy, dirty white hair over his grey fur and large eyes. He was quite sure one was glass, for no matter where the left one looked, the white one continued staring off idly into the abyss. The mouse wore a faded pink cardigan over a Christmas-striped jumper and he carried a candlestick. "Y-Yes, just for the night."

"Well, we'll say about that," the old mouse tittered, "you're welcome to stay as long as you deem necessary. Oh! Pardon me, I forget my manners. I am Gregory, the manager of this hotel, and you would be?"

He was surprised. Somebody who did not recognise him? Well, that was all right. It meant no need to sign autographs or talk business, and he had not had a good holiday in quite a while.

"Henry," he said, "Henry Cricket."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Cricket," said Gregory. He hobbled behind the counter and opened the red guest book resting on it and handed the new quest a pen. Henry scribbled his name and checked the clock on the wall for his checking in time. "There's no specific check out time," Gregory explained, "we run a fairly…_a-hem_…liberal system, you could say." He gave a creaking chuckle like an old door. "Well, that's that, now, why don't you come with me and I'll show you your room, sonny. You look tired from your trip." As the old mouse started to walk away from the counter, he disappeared downward with a yelp.

"Holy…!" Henry looked over to see a hole had opened up in the floor. "Are…are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"Oh, I'm fine," was the reply. Henry turned, wide-eyed, to see Gregory standing there with a large wooden spike stabbed right through his stomach. Henry felt a sick. His lips quivered but no sound came out.

"Oh, this?" asked Gregory, patting the spike. "Don't you fret about that, we also have a very good health plan here at the hotel, this is nothing to our on-site expert. Now why don't we go to your room? I'm afraid you missed dinner, but if you want I can whip you up a sandwich or some soup."

"Oh, uh, thank you," said Henry, watching the trail of blood the manager left in the carpet as they walked together. Even when the blood stopped flowing, he did not seem hindered in the slightest, and soon they reached Room 101.

"Here you go, my friend," said Gregory, handing Henry an iron key. "I'll be back soon. In the meantime, you make yourself comfortable, all right?" He beamed widely and walked away, fading into the shadows. Henry scratched the side of his head. Didn't he have a spike rammed through him a few moments ago? He must have been hallucinating. The mouse was right, he was probably just tired. He slotted the key into the lock and opened the door. The room was small and simple, but that was all right. There was a single bed up against one wall with a framed picture of a proud-looking housecat above it, a dressing table with a mirror, a single shuttered window and a wardrobe. He opened this last object to find a set of empty hangers, just enough on which to hang his jacket and bow-tie. He set his briefcase down on the wardrobe's floor and put his shoes on top of that. He collapsed on the bed, but rather than go to sleep, despite how fatigued he was, his mind simply wandered.

_Wonderful work…you'll knock their socks off at the BAFTAs…you're a strange man, aren't you?…evil, that's what your work is, absolutely evil, but I love it…hope to work with you in the future…_

He groaned and pulled the top pillow over his head.

_Honey, how did filming go? …I don't want to talk about it…well, if you say so, I have wonderful news myself about the book…tell me more…_

A knock at the door caught his attention. Sitting up, he went to the door and pulled it open to see Gregory standing there with a wooden tray. There was a plate of sandwiches and a cup of a rather sweet-smelling tea.

"Ah, good to see you're settling well, my friend," he smiled, "my cooking skills aren't really up to much, but I can make a mighty fine cheese sandwich. The tea is my good friend Catherine's _special blend_. She told me to let you know she really hopes you enjoy it. Her love and her…_heh-heh_…blood went into making it just right."

"Thank you very much," Henry smiled, accepting the tray.

"Right, I'll leave you to it, then," the mouse nodded, "so you know, breakfast is served between 7 and 9, lunch between 12 and 1 and dinner between 6 and 8, after which the bar will be open until 3 a.m., but don't be afraid to drop by the kitchen if you fancy a little something between meals. Good night, now." He chuckled again as he wandered off for the second time. Henry closed the door and looked at the tray, suddenly feeling ravenous. He sat down on the bed and wolfed down the sandwiches, then knocked back the tea. It scolded his throat and the fragrant scent filled his senses. He did all this without taking a single breath, and took several deep inhalations and exhalations when he was finished. He looked into the cup, there was just a small pool of the pinkish tea left and his reflection rippled on its surface…right? No, everything was rippling. The cup! The bed! His hands! Henry dropped the cup and it bounced on the wooden floor, spilling its scant contents in all directions. He put his hands to his head and struggled to maintain his balance, but his bones seemed to have gone as he flopped uselessly downward with a sickly 'thud!' Everything was becoming a mosaic blur, and the last sound he heard was heeled footsteps outside his door.


	2. Night 1: Cigarettes and Mea Culpa

**Night 1 / Chapter 2: "Cigarettes and **_**Mea Culpa**_**"**

"Good morning, honey, how did filming go?"

I look up from my coffee and see her standing in the living room doorway wearing her favoured wrap. It's the one I bought her on our first anniversary, black silk covered in flowers of various colours. Her bobbed auburn hair frames her heart-shaped face perfectly. I feel thankful I have her to greet me when I come home. We have just completed a long session of on-location shooting through the night. It took longer than we thought because one of the lighting engineers was an idiot who kept mumbling to himself because he thought it was funny. He's not. Really. Groin ache is funnier than him. I decide I don't want to talk about it and she understands. She sits down at the table with me.

"I've wonderful news myself," she says, putting her hand on mine, "about the book." I'm intrigued. I ask her to tell me more.

XXX

Henry groaned softly as he returned to consciousness. He tried to move, but it was futile. Someone had taken his glasses so his vision was blurred, but he could still make out other things. The bright lights. The antiseptic smell. He was in some kind of hospital room. His arms and legs had been strapped down against a bed with leather belts, which were pulled so tight they made his veins stick out more prominently than he was comfortable with. For a long time he lay there, squirming weakly, but the bindings did not budge. Eventually, he heard footsteps, and two voices. One was a deep, throaty growl like gravel while the other was the slow and sensual tones of a woman. Henry closed his eyes and laid his head on one side. He was good at pretending to be asleep. The door opened and the voices became clearer.

"…So I was thinking we could go to that new restaurant off the Rigor Mortis Roundabout," said the woman.

"But why?" asked her companion, sounding slightly hurt. "Doesn't my cooking please you anymore?"

"Oh, Cheffy," the woman purred, "it's not like that. You work yourself so hard, why not just relax? Kick back and enjoy yourself for once?"

"I'll…think about it," her companion said as if it were the hardest thing in the world to do. Henry opened one eye slightly to see the two figures. He could make out two pinkish blobs and a flickering yellow-red flame, then shut it again.

"Still not awake," the woman pouted. "It's no fun unless they feel it going in."

_Oh my God,_ Henry thought, _what does this woman want to do to me?_ He heard more mutterings and a wet, deep kiss from the two people.

"Since our boy here isn't up yet," said the woman, "how about you and me go back to your room for a little private time, huh?"

"Private time," the companion growled lecherously. "Good." Seconds later, the door shut. Henry opened his eyes and considered his options…what options? Drugged senseless and without sight, if he could move his body would be little more than a wet bag of cement. More time passed and someone else came into the room.

"You're in a real mess, aren't you?" said another woman. This one was more serious, less drawn out than the first, and with a cultured uptown American accent. There was the distinct smell of French perfume and posh cigarette smoke in the air. There was always some of that around at the awards. "Here," said the woman, slipping his glasses over his face. Henry should have been surprised, but after Gregory's little performance with the wooden spike, this was quite tame. The woman was another mouse, one who was obviously a great deal younger than the manager. Her fur was a light colour bordering on white, with a little black heart-shaped beauty spot on one cheek and wavy hair on top like a 1940s actress. Her eyes were purple but she seemed to have both working fully. That was a relief. Henry had always found glass eyes unnerving. There was always one eye looking at you and one eye looking for you. She was holding a cigarette between two well-manicured fingers.

"It's been a while since we had a smart one," she said. "The longer you keep away from the receiving end of Catherine's needles, the better. Trust me."

"Would you mind untying me?" Henry asked.

"I don't need to," said the mouse woman with a roll of her eyes. "Take a look." She gestured with her cigarette. Henry turned his head and saw that there was no longer anything holding him against the bed. He sat up and rubbed his wrists. Even if the bindings were gone, the tightness had left their mark. His wrists and probably his ankles were striped with red and feeling sore.

"Come with me," said the mouse woman, "and we'll talk more. Believe me, honey. I know the score round these parts." Henry glanced around the room and realised it was not just a hospital ward. This 'Catherine,' had literally fused it with her own bedroom in the hotel. There was a sinking feeling that she was in charge of the so-called health plan Gregory mentioned. A row of huge hypodermic needles hung in showcases on one wall like collectible swords. He was more than happy to follow his rescuer out into the hall, soon coming to a door that led out into a small courtyard. There was a little flower bed and a fountain, a couple of benches, but nothing else. A thin layer of mist covered the ground and while there was no wind, the place was cold like death.

"Cigarette?" the mouse woman offered.

"I don't smoke," Henry replied.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, taking another good long drag of the one between her lips. She blew out smoke rings and looked at him. "I'm Marilyn. Call me Mary and you'll die. All right? Good. Glad we understand each other."

"Uh…H-Henry, Henry Cricket," the man gulped.

"I didn't ask, but nice to meet you," Marilyn smiled wryly. "So what brought you to Gregory House?"

"I fell asleep on the train," Henry explained. "Woke up here, thought I'd stay here just for the night and look for a way back home in the morning."

"That's what you think," said Marilyn, "nobody just winds up here, and nobody ever 'just stays for the night'. Since not even you seem to know why you came here, you're safe for now, but once Gregory works it out, you'd better prepare yourself." Henry was not sure what to make of that statement so he decided to change the subject.

"Uh…so Gregory's your…"

"Husband," she replied without missing a beat. "I know there's a bit of an age gap but things work differently in this world. Some people mistake me for his sister…I don't even bother correcting them anymore…and anyway, he and I have a good arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement?"

"I told you, a _good_ one."

Well, it was obvious he was not going to get any more out of her.

"Anyway," said Marilyn, "I just wanted to tell you that you should stay on your toes. You'll be here longer than you think, and there's only so much I can do to help. I'm as much a part of this world as the others. Now, enough of this melancholy, I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go, let's hit the bar. My treat. You at least _drink_, don't you?"

Henry smiled at her. "Sounds delightful."

XXX

Gregory had finally managed to put James to bed for the night. He loved the little scamp, but he could be such a pain sometimes. His deep, symbiotic connection with the hotel itself had told him to head for the bar, exchanging his dirty cardigan and jumper for the black-and-white suit appropriate for that role. He was standing behind the counter, listening to the jazz melody coming from the jukebox and cleaning glasses when Marilyn came into the room with their new guest behind her. _I wonder why she's warming up to him,_ he thought, _she must be up to something. I'm sure of it._ He would talk to her later. He was fond of guests really. They gave him the opportunity to try out some of his own cocktail recipes. He worked out that something must have kept Catherine from her fun if he was still standing, even with the drugs running through his system to keep him happy and docile. The slow dragging of the man's feet told him he was still under their influence. Maybe, just maybe, he would not put up as much resistance as the others.

"You can quit staring at him, Gregory," said Marilyn. Gregory jumped. He had been so deep in his train of thought he had not noticed that the two were now actually sitting in front of him.

"Uh, y-yes, of course," he stuttered. "What'll it be?"

"Blue Lagoon, if you got it," said Marilyn.

"Of course, my dear," the old mouse grinned, taking out the ingredients and mixing them. "And for you, my friend, why not have one of my house specials?" Marilyn was about to protest (she was all too familiar with her husband's inventions) but was interrupted by Henry.

"Sure, I'll try anything once," he said.

_"Tfeht gnidulcni."_

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Gregory handed Marilyn her drink and then started preparing a second one, which he passed to Henry. It was a shallow glass containing an olive green liquid with a cherry floating on top. "I call this one _Mea Culpa_. That's Latin, don't you know?" Seemingly not noticing the warning glare Marilyn was giving him Henry drank the entire thing and immediately began to feel weak.

XXX

I look at the caller I.D. in fear. It's Nira, the producer I've been in contact with since the first film. She's been urging me to write and direct a second piece with her. I have plenty of little ideas for her. I've drawers overflowing with little notes. Lyrics, names, quick sketches, even random words that don't make any sense, but nothing I can string together. I answer the phone.

"Ah, Henry," says Nira, "I was worried you might not be in. I know it's a bit early but I've found some actors who'd be interested in working with us for the next film. Do you have anything prepared?"

What can I say? Nira trusts me. Can I really tell her I have nothing? I groan inwardly.

"Henry?"

"Yes, yes!" I exclaim. "I have something great."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Nira replies. "Let's meet at the usual place tomorrow. Is that okay?"

"Uh…y-yes…that's perfect. I'll see you then, Nira." We say our goodbyes. She hangs up. I collapse onto the sofa and bury my head in my hands. Our flat is nice. Small, but clean. I can smell the cake baking in the oven. Due to my medical condition, my wife goes to great pains to make cakes for special occasions. The present I've bought her for our third anniversary is tucked safely away beneath the sofa where she won't find it until I'm ready. As she bakes, she calls through the hatch connecting the living room and the kitchen.

"I'm thinking of digging out that manuscript I started in college," she tells me, "you know, the one the old publisher didn't like?"

"Something to do with the subject matter, wasn't it?" I ask, somewhat mindlessly, since my focus is on how I'm going to pull this one off with Nira.

"That's right," my wife says, "the publisher said it'd be too controversial, but my new agent Bill said he was interested." The horrible idea strikes me like a bolt of lightning.

XXX

"Ah, you're waking up," said Gregory. Henry had passed out on the floor after the last drink. He groaned lightly and his eyes creaked open very slowly. "Here, have a pick-me-up," said the manager.

"Oh, hang your pick-me-ups," Marilyn frowned, helping the fallen man into a sitting position. "You feeling okay, hon?"

"I…yes," Henry nodded, obviously not since he did not even seem to remember where he was for several long seconds. Gregory handed him another glass, this one filled with an amber liquid, and Henry took it based only on instinctual reaction.

"I call this one, 'Self-Destruction'," he tittered.


	3. Night 1: Hot Flushes

**Night 1 / Chapter 3: "Hot Flushes"**

The drinks had gone to his head. Henry should have told Marilyn he was not good at holding his alcohol, but he had already turned down the cigarette and he considered it to be rude – or even embarrassing on her part – to make a repeat rejection.

"You know," she told him as she helped him along the hallway back to his room, "you don't have to act the macho man and drink for the sake of it, though I guess I should've warned you about Gregory's…_a-hem_…cocktails beforehand."

"What do you mean?" he slurred a little. "I've got the constitution of a horse."

"Maybe if the horse is a _My Little Pony_," she smiled.

"You're mean, you know that?" Henry smiled back, though his was somewhat lopsided. They came to room 101 and he tried the key.

"It won't open," Henry groaned.

"You're using it the wrong way round, honey," said Marilyn. "Give it here." The mouse took the iron key from him and unlocked the door, ushering him in and helping him onto the bed. "Get some sleep, okay? You'll feel better in the morning." She glanced over at the dressing table. Someone had set a brown vase there with a fresh rose inside. She pointed at the flower and muttered, "You behave yourself." Henry blinked.

"Goodnight," Marilyn nodded to him, then she was gone just like that. Henry was alone with the rose and his thoughts. For a long time he lay there on the bed, staring at the flower. After being knocked out by Catherine's tea, he was quite sure he would be too rested, but he dropped off in moments…or he nearly did anyway. He felt the bile rise in his throat and leapt to his feet, rushed out of the room and started prancing about the hallway in search of the bathroom. He soon found it and pushed past the door, and was greeted with something quite amazing. A child – he thought it was a child – with perfectly vertical spikes of blue hair and wearing only a pair of red shorts was splashing in the toilet bowl and screaming for help. The child's eyes were as wide as dinner-plates and its tongue flapped like paper. Henry swallowed back the bile and ran to the tiny creature's aid, but the moment his hand took hold he felt a powerful sucking motion and was dragged spiralling through a tunnel of water. He struggled to breathe, his lungs were on fire and already the vomit exploded back up his throat. He never saw the end coming, but he was dumped hard on the floor of the hallway, or was it another one? It was impossible to tell. He was too dizzy. He lay there in the musty carpet, deciding not to move until the right functions were back in the right senses.

"Hey, mister!" an energetic voice squeaked. Henry wiped slime from his lips with the back of his shirt sleeve and slowly turned his head. He would have thrown up again if he had anything left in his stomach. A little brown dog was hopping up and down in one of the doorways and chortling merrily. He was wearing a red pullover and blue jeans with big brass buttons on the braces. That was not what made him feel ill. The little pup's head was wrapped almost completely in bandages, and a fire-axe was plunged deeply into the top of his skull, stopping just above his eye-line. The dog's eyes were big and prominent, but they were dark, void of the spark of life. By all accounts of logic, he was dead, yet there he was.

"Are ya feelin' sick, mister?" the puppy asked. "You look sick, are ya sick, huh, huh, huh?" Henry wanted to tell this little bundle of kinetic energy to go away and play with his toys, but he was too disoriented. His throat and mouth felt clogged and his whole body was shaking.

"I know!" the puppy exclaimed. "I'll go get my daddy! If there's anyone who knows about being sick it's him!" He toddled into the room calling, "Daddy! Daddy!" _Oh no, what now?_ Henry put both hands over the back of his head in the vain hope it would drain out the increasing unreality. Well, he was about to find out 'what now,' because a deep and slow voice spoke up, accompanied by shuffling footsteps.

"Oh my, hullo there, sir."

Henry looked up and released a timid peep. The puppy had returned with his father, a much larger version of himself wearing a dirty grey jacket and a double-pointed Arabian sabre jammed into his cranium. Unlike his son, the adult dog's eyes were half-closed and droopy.

"My son tells me you're very sick," said the father dog, "and I must say I do feel a little queasy myself. I've got this _terrible_ headache, you know." Henry could see why. "I know! Why don't we both go see the nurse, hmm? She'll make it _all_ better. She's very good at her job. You don't feel a thing afterwards. Up you get, sir." Henry was about to protest, but the father dog reached down and lifted him up with incredible strength that he never expected such a fragile-looking creature to possess. Laying him over his shoulder, the dog started off down the hallway with his son in tow, skipping and chirping all the way. Henry squirmed uselessly as the dog took him to a room marked 104. The door opened, and horror upon horrors! It was the accursed hospital room, and worst of all, the resident was in! A large pink lizard covered in dark magenta spots and love-hearts, with violet eyes under well made-up lids and long lashes. A purple forked tongue flickered out from between her lips.

"Oh, there you are," she cooed, swishing her long tail this way and that. "I'd wondered where you'd gotten too. Thanks for bringing him back."

"Oh, no problem, Catherine," said the father dog. "I had to speak with you anyway."

"Ah, yes," Catherine nodded. "Just set the poor little patient on the bed and I'll get you your medicine."

"You're a Saint, you really are," the father dog chuckled, laying Henry out on the bed as the nurse had told him. Catherine opened a cupboard high up on the wall and retrieved two large purple-and-yellow capsules, handing one each to the father and his son.

"Just take these and call me in the morning, darlings," she told them and waved them off. When they were gone, she slammed the door and quickly spun to face the prone Henry. "Now we're alone, sweetie." Her tongue flickered away. Henry tried to sit up but the moment he did, the sickness took hold again and he dropped onto his back. The nurse plucked one of her huge needles from a showcase and stroked the long barrel.

"Mm…I can't wait to draw your delicious blood!" she hissed with rising excitement. Henry's shirt ripped open of its own volition and BAM! the needle plunged deep into his torso. Henry's entire body felt numb as he watched the needle fill up with red, red life-blood. Catherine moaned and groaned in orgasm. "Oh, yes! Ooh, yes! I just love plunging deep into your juicy red vein!" The needle popped out and Catherine's tongue flicked at the end to lick up a hanging droplet. She laughed seductively and Henry tried to move, but all the strength, all the life had been sucked straight out of him. He sank into crushing oblivion.

XXX

Marilyn stood on the balcony outside her room on the hotel's top floor, smoking and looking over the barren landscape spread out in all directions. A greenish river flowed through the dead forest and vanished over the horizon. She inhaled the stale air deeply and sighed. How long had it been since she came here? Time was funny here. It did not seem to go forward or backwards, or even sideways. Gregory House existed in a singularity that lay at the convergence of all times, composed of concepts, regrets and realisations, truth and lies, a sort of maintenance spot for when the universe leaked. That was her explanation anyway, not that she completely understood it herself. Despite all her bitterness and attitude, Marilyn was indeed quite happy here. When she arrived, she had nothing. Her heart was empty, and like a hedgehog, anybody who tried to get close would only result in both them and her being hurt. Gregory and the others had given her what she wanted. A family. People to care for, and who would care for her in return. Megalomania and taunting personality aside, she did like Gregory. James was a little brat but so were most little boys, and while she could never get used to being referred to as, "Grandma," she came to find it endearing. As for Mama…well, what could be said about her? The old witch had her qualities. She looked over in the direction of the garden. The new gardener was doing a good job keeping everything in order, though she rarely spoke to her. The memories of her arrival were still vivid in her mind, and that included her disturbing encounter with one of the roses customarily left for the guests. Those things did not just prick the holder by accident. They thirsted for warm, nourishing blood.

_"Hold me! Hold me!"_

Marilyn shuddered.

"Grandma! Grandma!"

She turned in time to see James run into the room, fully dressed and with his usual happy grin plastered over his face.

"James, you're still up?" Marilyn put out her cigarette and dropped the charred remains in the bin.

"Uh-huh!" James nodded. "I heard there was a new guest! Catherine got hold of him and now he's stumblin' round like he's drunk or somethin'!"

"Oh no…" Marilyn put her palm to her face. She went through the trouble of getting him out of that situation only for him to wind up as Catherine's pin cushion anyway? How frustrating. She quickly marched out of the door with James following close behind.

XXX

When she finally found Henry in the veritable labyrinth of the hotel, he was lying barely conscious at the foot of a staircase. His skin had turned deathly white and his eyes were closed. His glasses had skittered across the floor (James grabbed these and put them on, but took them off again immediately because they threw off his balance.

"How the heck does he see through these?" the young mouse squawked.

"Clam up and help me with him," Marilyn scowled, lifting Henry's arms up. James quickly hopped over and took hold of his ankles and the two mice set off for the room yet again. Really it was the best place for him at this point. As they disappeared down the hallway, Gregory emerged from the darkness at the top of the stairs, holding a lit candle on a stick.

"Now that's interesting," he tittered, "I don't think any of the guests have ever been outright beaten into submission so frequently before. If this keeps up, taking this one could be easier than I initially thought."


	4. Night 2: Choice and Consequence

**Night 2 / Chapter 4: "Choice and Consequence"**

The days in Gregory's world were only a little better than the nights. The sky, no matter how bright, was always filled with a blanket of grey clouds. You got used to it eventually, but those who could remember clear skies always felt something of a longing for it. Henry sat on his bed, back against the wall, looking out of the single window. He still felt weak, and he was sure something was wrong with him. Everything that had happened could not be real, especially the last events. That baby and the two dogs were too horrifying. Catherine was real. Painfully so. He could still see the red puncture mark on his chest. Even though it had healed over for the most part, there was still a scarlet circle where the needle had gone in. He was scared. He was in fear for his life here. Hiding behind every corner was something that wanted to kill him. As he lay there, he heard a sound coming through the wall, a soft meowing. _A cat?_ Henry thought. He remembered seeing the door of the room it was coming from. It was a heavy, metal one with a padlock. The poor thing was trapped inside, and Henry knew it was only right to go investigate…or he would if he could walk more than three steps. He toppled over, catching the doorknob on the wardrobe for support. It swung open to reveal a long, ornately carved walking stick with a handle shaped like a lion's head. It was identical to the one his grandfather used – now there was a man who died happily, surrounded by family, painless and with no regrets. Henry cautiously took hold of the stick and used it to pull himself to his feet. It even made the same pleasant, strong noise as it tapped the floor. It was a sound that always made him feel safe. It never occurred to him to wonder how it happened to be there. He was just thankful for the familiarity. With his new silent companion in hand, Henry opened his door and made his way to the locked one. Leaning down to stare through the keyhole, he was interrupted by a voice.

"Oh, good morning, my friend," Gregory chirped. "What were you doing?"

"I-I heard s-sounds…in there," said Henry.

"Oh, don't you worry about him," Gregory waved it off. "He's one of our more, ah…boisterous guests, we'll say. Come now, breakfast is about to be served. You're as white as a sheet. Some food will do you good."

"Oh, um…" Henry said nothing more. He really did not want to eat, but he had no supplies of his own and due to his medical condition, he had to raise his sugar levels or risk falling into a coma. He followed the old manager to the dining room, where a single long, wooden table surrounded by chairs took up the majority of the available space. Catherine (Henry shuddered), Marilyn, a small mouse with brownish fur and blonde hair and what appeared to be nothing short of a human-sized cactus with a thick black moustache and wavy hair. He wore a poncho and an orange bandanna around his neck. A bandolier was draped over his shoulder and a sombrero rested on the table just to his right. All of them were well into their breakfasts, apart from Marilyn who was simply sipping a cup of coffee. Henry took a seat beside her, wincing when Catherine flicked her long tongue in his direction.

"I'm sure the Chef can whip you up something quick," said Gregory, handing him a menu.

"Oh…toast will be fine," replied Henry, "with a tea…uh, sweetener not sugar, if you have it."

"That's very specific," Gregory tittered. "All right, I'll see what I can do." He took the menu back and walked through the double doors. Marilyn leaned towards him.

"Diabetic?" she asked quietly.

"Mm-hmm," Henry mumbled. He shifted a section of the table-cloth so he could hide his midriff while he readied the insulin pen in his trouser pocket. He never liked doing it in the company of others. Injecting into the flesh of his stomach always hurt, but it was easier to cover than his thighs. There was an almighty roar from the kitchen that shook the table.

"TOAST?!" it bellowed. Henry paled when he recognised it as the other one from his first trip to the nurse's room. The doors flew open as the chef burst out and stormed towards him while swinging a giant cleaver longer than he was tall. He wore a traditional chef's uniform with a red neckerchief, apron and a very long toque that covered most of his face in shadow. A few strands of sandy hair poked out from beneath and two blood red eyes glowed. A flame flickered brightly atop the toque.

"You!" the Chef lowered his blade at Henry's throat. "You are the one who wants toast?!"

"Urk…!" Henry choked.

"As you wish," the Chef growled, "but make no mistake, it will be the greatest toast you have ever tasted!" He waddled back into the kitchen lightning-quick. Henry, shaking like a leaf, turned to look at Marilyn. Everyone else was staring at him. It was incredible that someone had led the Chef to explode with such passion yet did not suffer his wrath.

"He's always like that," the lady mouse shrugged. "Passionate, I guess." She looked at the cactus and spat, "What're you lookin' at, Gunman?"

"_Perdón, señorita_," said the cactus in a thick Spanish accent, "your _amigo_, I suddenly am feeling like I have seen him before." He turned to Henry. "_Oye, hombre flaco_, after dees, joo an' me, we play cards, _sí_?"

"Oh, uh…_sí_?" Henry smiled nervously.

"TOAST!" the Chef roared as he emerged from the kitchen and slid a plate in front of the frightened man. "The finest toast this side of the Sea of Souls! Enjoy!" He was gone again. Henry stared at what had been served to him. Two slices prepared to a golden colour, buttered evenly and sliced into two triangles. A knife and four round plastic tubs ringed the plate, each containing a different spread. Set down beside this was a cup of steaming, rich brown tea. Pulling the cloth to cover his stomach again as he jabbed the insulin pen into his skin, he gingerly spread marmalade onto the first slice and took a bite. It was pretty good, which was a surprising assessment of toast.

"Nice to see the colour coming back in your cheeks," said Marilyn. "Catherine can get…overzealous." She said the last part loud enough for the pink lizard to hear. Catherine snorted, put down her fork and stalked out of the room, leaving the fringes of her unfinished breakfast.

XXX

The Cactus Gunman's room was on the first floor of the hotel, and after introducing the _hombre flaco_ to his little sister, they both sat down for a game of Texas Hold 'em. Henry was happy for the game to go seemingly ordinarily. It was the first moment of normalcy he had been privy to since he arrived at Gregory House, or so it appeared to be. It was his turn, and suddenly he realised there was a card in his hand that had not been there before. He looked up and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Eh, _amigo_," the gunman growled. "I think joor steecky feengers have been helping themselves to my hand, joo know? Een Cactus Land, we don't take kindly to dees, understand?"

"I-I didn't…!" Henry started. The gunman pulled the trigger, but through some miracle, the bullet missed by yards, blowing a hole through the little sister's sombrero. The gunman's eyes widened as he stared at the anger building in the smaller cactus' expression.

"Well I had fun but I'll take my leave now!" Henry said quickly. "Cheerio!" With that, he grabbed his walking stick and made for the door. As he tried to escape down the hallway, a lasso looped itself around his shoulders and dragged him back so he landed painfully on his side. The little sister pushed him onto his stomach and sat down hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him (and propelling his glasses along the carpet).

"There ees no 'cheerio,' _amigo_," sneered the gunman, with his gun primed again. "Dees time, I do not mees. _Adios, muchacho_!"

BANG!

"Brother…you meesed again…!" the little sister groaned. She toppled over with a big hole in her cow-skin waistcoat.

"Seester!" the gunman dashed over to her. "Ay-ay-ay! _¡Hermana! ¿Son usted bien? ¡Hábleme! ¡Dígame eso usted me odia!_"

"Is…is she all right?" Henry gasped, edging closer. He realised it was stupid to hang around when these people had tried to shoot him stone dead but his conscience was so heavy already he simply could not ignore them.

"_¡Soy un tiro terrible!_" the gunman babbled. "Open joor eyes, seester, and I promise to never peeck up a gon again!" Henry's hand met the Mexican man's cheek before he even realised what he was doing.

"Calm down!" he snapped. "Get her into your room and check the damage, if it's really bad then apply a tourniquet."

"_A-amigo_," stuttered the gunman, "joo must tell _Señorita _Cathereen."

Henry shook his head. "There's no way we can let that repulsive reptile near her, I'll try and call the hospital. Shift yourself. Go! _¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!_"

"_S-sí, entiendo_," the gunman nodded very quickly, lifting his unconscious sibling and scampering back into the room they shared at the end of the hallway. It was only when they were gone that Henry allowed himself to whine in pain and begin plucking the cactus needles out of his skin. As he walked down the stairs towards the atrium, it occurred to him how odd the gunman's speech patterns became. He had seen it in a million films, characters speaking English with random ethnic phrases chucked in. A certain Mexican cartoon character came to mind. He understood completely if the gunman had reverted to his native tongue when panicking for his sister's safety, so why did it…no, thinking back in it, there was no discernable crack in the speech. It just happened, as if he willed it to. He had, to some degree, worked out that this world did not work on the principles of his own. Maybe willpower did play a role in how it worked?

"Ugh, too much pseudo-science," he murmured. "This isn't _Hitchhiker's Guide_…"

He reopened his eyes and saw what he had been looking for. A red telephone sat on the desk. Gregory was absent, but so what? The cactus girl could be in trouble. He lifted the phone's receiver and fished around in his pocket until he found a coin, which he slipped into the money slot.

"This phone does not accept small change!" an impatient voice snapped. Henry growled and took out a five pound note. There was a light whirr as it was pulled through the slot, then the next thing Henry knew, the receiver walloped him across the side of the head and the phone was running away across the atrium. That did it. Henry released an indignant roar and pursued the phone. The bruise rising on his temple was already throbbing, but that just seemed to fuel him. He was bigger and with a much greater stride than the phone and in no time at all he was upon it.

"Look up," he snarled and swung his walking stick down. The phone screamed as it shattered into fragments. Wires and bits of plastic flew in all directions and its receiver was split perfectly down the middle. Henry reached into the mess and retrieved his money. He was breathing heavily. Damn, that felt really, really good. He was venting his frustration and it was such a rush that he wanted more. He spun on his heels, cane raised, and shouted, "Who else wants some?!"

There was no answer. The hotel seemed dead now, silent save for the crackle of the burning torches on the walls and the tick-tock of a clock somewhere. He fell against the wall and closed his eyes. Even the thrice-damned phone was alive. Was he alone? Well and truly alone, with nothing to help him save himself? No hero, no shortcut, no plot device. Just him. He squeezed the cane tightly in both hands and stayed like that, letting the cold sweat roll down his face. He gazed back up the hallway, pleading for an escape, but it was impossibly long now, the throat of some great and terrible beast. Then he heard it. Grinding, like a hook along a metal pole…or a…rail? It was distant and silent at first, then it steadily grew louder, sliding towards him, and there was another noise. Singing. It was a haunting, repetitive tune that bored into his brain, from a voice that oozed with honey and poison.

_"Do you know who I am?  
They call me Judgement Boy!"_

It continued as such, again and again, and the grinding became louder. Henry looked up, and indeed he saw a complicated system of rails criss-crossing in the black ceiling. The song was now echoing off the walls in every direction, as if it were coming from the structure of the hotel itself. Henry turned until he nearly fell over. From the inky depths of the throat emerged the culprit. Its head was like that of a small boy with a pink nose and blonde hair under a stripy pointed cap (it was this cap that it used to travel). Its body was a pyramid emblazoned with the words 'THE JUDGEMENT DAY,' in jet black text. Two ball-shaped five-ton weights hung on a chain beneath the pyramid. It arms were perfectly straight and from each one there hung a metal birdcage on thinner chains. The cage on Henry's right carried a nugget of glistening gold while the one on his left contained a glowing pink love-heart.

"Juuudgement!" the scale-creature hollered as it came to a stop in front of him, revealing two rows of teeth sharp like knives. "You are a film-maker. Your producer wants you to write and direct a new project but you have writer's block. Your wife, whom you love, is working on a new book, one that suits your criteria…what will you do?"

"What…what are you implying?!" Henry shouted at it. "Who do you think you are?! I…I would never…I…!" He was unable to finish the sentence.

"Are you saying that you would tell your producer you have nothing for her?" the thing asked slyly. "Well, I say we should consult the balance of truth." The scales began to bob up and down and the pyramid tilted back and forth in time with them. "If you try to weigh your money against your love, there is no doubt your heart will start to sway. If you try to weigh your love against your money, your heart will start to break. Judgement…!"

The scales began to spin. Faster and faster they went until they were just a blur of strobe lights. They jarred to a halt with a cry of, "Now!" The bottom of one of the cages popped open and the heart fell to the floor where it shattered like glass. Henry felt the air leaving his lungs and his nerves burning as the creature's words echoed in his head, dragging up memories he had been fighting back for over a year.

"You are so desperate you _steal_ your wife's work and show it to your producer!" it said. "She is disgraced by your betrayal. It was your choice. You get to live with it." At this last part, its voice became deeper and stern. The now lopsided thing turned and began to roll away down the rails, singing its merry ditty once more before fading into the shadows. Henry dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. For what felt like hours he knelt there, sobbing and wailing. It was true! What a disgusting, vile little beast he was!

"I'm sorry," he choked, "I'm so, so sorry…"

"Mister?"

Henry looked up. Standing in front of him was the saddest child he had ever seen. She wore a green dress covered in mismatched patches and stitches that reminded him of Cinderella, and her auburn hair was tied in two drooping pigtails. Her eyes were puffy from crying and she was holding out both her stubby hands in wanting. She hiccoughed and wiped tears from her cheeks though they were soon replaced by fresh ones.

"Have you seen my dolly?"


End file.
